Chapter 3

It needed but this final woe To fill the wretched cup, That Hecuba, the hen, should go And put _her_ prices up.

This Hecuba, her pride is such She'll only do her job For pay in francs; she will not touch The honest British bob.

Thus I, who have not got the dash To borrow, steal or beg, Have first of all to buy the cash Wherewith to buy the egg.

And when I go to buy some francs To see the matter through I find that hereabouts the banks Have raised their prices too....

The farm is Swiss; but then, suppose You place yourself by chance Upon the southern edge, your nose Is trespassing in France.

'Tis here that Hecuba, the hen, In solitude sublime Does business every now and then At half-a-franc a time.

Then ought she not (of course she ought) To pause and shift her ground, And lay my egg where francs are bought At fifty to the pound?

HENRY.

* * * * *

From a music-hall advertisement:--

"IMPORTANT NOTICE! OWING TO THE ENORMITY OF THIS PRODUCTION, FIRST HOUSE COMMENCES ... 6.15."

_Provincial Paper._

The licensing authority seems to have been caught napping.

* * * * *

"The interesting announcement is made that Finchale Priory has been handed over to the care of the Society for the Prevention of Ancient Monuments."--_Provincial Paper._

It is suggested that some of the London statues might profitably be handed over to the same body.

* * * * *

THE PERFECT SCULLERY.

I was more than interested in the article "About Bathrooms" which appeared in the columns of _Punch_ of March 31st last, because I too always smoke a pipe in a hot bath, to which I add the habit of reading, not books--they are too sacred to risk--but newspapers. I also frequently indulge in a further luxury at this time, a cup of coffee, which rests on the sponge and soap bridge between sips. Of course the soap sometimes falls into the coffee, and if this is undetected in time a slight frothing at the mouth occurs, but no really serious harm ensues.

I tried the effect of pictures round the bath--pictures with a shiver in them that made me pull the water up closer round my neck. But I found that they were being ruined by the steam, so I removed them and am now looking for some undraped but respectable statuettes that will give the same result.

I have not tried the rich rug stunt. The only rug we possess which might be so described is a Persian one, and is on our cat at present. When she has done with it I intend to spread it over the only part of the bathroom floor which is permanently dry. And, suffering as our bathroom does from that lack of space which the writer on bathrooms so justly laments, the "profound chair" is out of the question.

While his views on bathrooms are sound it seems evident to me that the writer of the _Punch_ article lives in pre-war style--with servants. We don't. Our last maid left us to be a Waac and has not been seen since in the precincts of domestic servitude. I did hear something about her approaching marriage to a Colonel of Hussars, but don't know whether it came off or not.

It seems to me that what is chiefly wrong with houses, at any rate with our house, is the scullery. It is smaller than most bathrooms, and, though it is anything but bare, the furnishings of it are not intriguing to one who, like myself, spends therein such an undue proportion of the twenty-four hours.

Our present char comes three days a week, about eleven o'clock, has a look round with a duster in one hand till thirteen o'clock, then lunches and (probably) has a cigarette. She leaves at fifteen o'clock. This means that I help with the washing-up of the breakfast, tea and dinner things on char days, and of luncheon things as well on non-char days. My share of the task is generally the wiping. This is not such an engrossing occupation as to prevent one from thinking great thoughts at the same time, thoughts worthy to be committed to paper afterwards. Now, as a song-writer, I ask how can one get inspiration while gazing at a row of saucepans, a cullender, a bottle of metal paste, one ditto knife polish and a plate-rack?

If any room in the house should be luxuriously furnished it is the scullery. But what is even more important, I think, is that the whole game of scullerying should be revolutionised. The implements still in use are worthy of the Stone Age. The rules should be so framed that there should be little or no washing-up, in the ordinary acceptation of the term.

Let me put before you a pen-picture of the scullery of my dreams. A cosy pleasant room, the whole length of the house in fact, with a south aspect, full advantage of which is secured by a long window filled with leaded lights of opalescent glass (in order that the Hilary-Tompkins next door, who have two servants, may not grow too ribald). On the western wall is a rich mosaic depicting Hercules cleansing the Augean stable, and below this a fountain of clear limpid water, warmed to at least twenty over grease-proof, gushes forth and flows in a pellucid stream, between banks of marble, to the eastern end of the chamber. At the fountain head reclines Euphemia, my wife, arrayed and fructed proper, who leisurely drops the crockery into the stream. At the other end of the room, seated in a "profound chair" by the estuary, where the waters of the River Plate fall into the Sink Basin, behold me lazily watching the cups and platters as they glide gently down the rippling flood towards me, dexterously fishing out each fresh arrival and depositing it in a hot-air receptacle conveniently placed for its accommodation.

Such, I say, is the scullery of my dreams, in which the washing up of a nine-hole-course dinner would be as pleasant as a round of golf. No unsightly pots, pans, brooms, tins or other junk pollute the apartment; they are in the dream ante-chamber, to be hereinafter described or not, if the Editor sees fit. [ED.--He does not see fit.]

* * * * *

Shakspeare and Mr. Charles Chaplin.

Mr. CHARLES CHAPLIN writes from Los Angeles protesting against the allegation, made in our issue of March 31st, that "he does not like SHAKSPEARE." Mr. Punch cannot accept responsibility for a statement quoted from the report of an interview, but he has no hesitation in expressing his profound regret for any wrong that he has inadvertently done both to Mr. CHAPLIN and SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

THE GREAT DIVORCE QUESTION.

When I week-end with people I like them to be tactful. I thought Mrs. Benham lacked the tact essential to a hostess when she said, "We breakfast at half-past nine on Sundays. That will give us all ample time to get to church." She never seemed to contemplate the possibility of my having a Sunday morning indisposition.

Now there is no virtue in compulsory church-going, but as I was for it I accepted my fate cheerfully. I walked with Benham across the park to the church. He is the adopted Candidate for the division, and he took the opportunity of rehearsing to me a speech he was preparing which showed up Bolshevism in its true colours. Though no Sabbatarian I have the deepest objection to political speeches on a Sunday, and it was really a relief when I reached the gracious refuge of the church.

The family pew was a little too near the pulpit, but it was most comfortable. When the sermon came on I settled myself in a restful corner to listen to the Archdeacon. After a moment or two I felt he was on sound orthodox lines and needed no supervision of mine. I leant back and gradually dozed off.

Then in my sleep I became aware of a stern voice disapproving of something. It seemed to me that Benham was at a public meeting denouncing Bolshevism to a very lethargic audience. It was my bounden duty to support my host. "Hear, hear! Hear, hear!" I said most emphatically.

I woke up just as the last "Hear" left my lips. The choir-boys were sniggering--you can always trust them to do that. A large curate was eyeing me as if I were something between a leper and a dissenter. Mrs. Benham was looking indignantly down the pew at me; Benham was tactfully but ineffectively pretending not to have heard anything.

I went hot all over. What could I do? Should I be prosecuted for brawling in church? Could I possibly explain to the Archdeacon that I spoke in my sleep, and therefore was not responsible? There are some explanations that aggravate an offence.

There came a terrible moment when the service was over. The Archdeacon stepped deliberately towards our pew. I was tempted to bolt through a stained-glass window. And then, as he came near, he beamed on me.

"Don't apologise, my dear Sir, don't apologise. If you were so moved by the picture I drew of the inroads the new Divorce Law would make on the sanctity of our homes why should you not express your indignation? Enthusiasm is far better than lethargy."

"Mr. Johnson feels very strongly on the subject," said Mrs. Benham. I had never said a word about it before her in my life.

That night she surveyed me carefully. "I can see you've a headache, Mr. Johnson," she said. "You had better not go to church; there is nothing worse than a hot church for headache."

After all, Mrs. Benham is not without tact.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Another Impending Apology?

"The Bank now gives employment to 6,000 persons, 2,000 of whom are women. In order to accommodate them outside premises have been acquired from time to time. The chief of these new establishments is St. Luke's Hospital for Lunatics."--_Sunday Paper._

* * * * *

* * * * *

MAGNANIMOUS MOTTOES.

A writer in _The Evening Standard_ calls attention to the latest ornamentation of the fine old Elizabethan Hall of Gray's Inn, in the shape of the arms of Lord BIRKENHEAD, who as a past Treasurer of the Inn is entitled to this armorial distinction in his lifetime. But, he goes on, "it was not so much the arms as their motto which attracted me--the motto of a man who began his brilliant career as plain Mr. F. E. SMITH. Now the Latin for 'smith,' as an artisan, is _faber_ (artificer or fabricator in the primal sense); so, with a fine democratic courage, Lord BIRKENHEAD has chosen as his family motto: '_Faber meæ Fortunæ_' (Architect of my own Fortune)."

We agree; but it must not be supposed that Lord BIRKENHEAD has an entire monopoly of this frank spirit. Other eminent men who have recently been ennobled or decorated have shown a similar frankness. Thus it may not be known that Lord RIDDELL has adopted a motto which reveals the comparatively modest beginnings of his greatness. Lord RIDDELL was, and we believe still is, the proprietor of _The News of the World_. Now the Latin for news or newness is _novitas_ (novelty or unfamiliarity in the primal sense); so with a noble democratic courage he has chosen as his family motto: "_Sæculorum vetustati præstat novitas mundi_" (The news of the world surpasses the antiquity of the ages). It is rather a long motto, but it is eminently Ciceronian in its cadence.

Then there is the case of Lord NORTHCLIFFE, who began his brilliant career as simple Mr. HARMSWORTH. Now the Latin for "harm" is _damnum_ (loss or sacrifice in the primal sense), and for "worth" _dignus_. So, with a fine loyalty to his antecedents, Lord NORTHCLIFFE has adopted the heroic and pleasantly alliterative motto: "_Per damna ad dignitatem_" (Through sacrifices to worthiness).

Even more ingenious is the motto chosen by Lord BEAVERBROOK, who began his coruscating career as a native of New Brunswick. Now the Latin for "beaver" is _castor_ (not to be confounded with the small wheels attached to the legs of arm-chairs), and in Greek mythology Castor was the brother of Pollux, who was famed as a boxer. "Boxer" is a synonym for "prize-fighter"; "prize-fighter" recalls "WELLS"; "wells" contain "water," and "water" suggests "brook." So Lord BEAVERBROOK, with a true allegiance to Canada, coupled with a scholarly mastery of the niceties of Classical etymology, has chosen for his family motto: "_E Castore Pollux_" (Brook from the Beaver).

* * * * *

THE DEVIL IN DEVON.

The Devil walked about the land And softly laughed behind his hand To see how well men worked his will And helped his darling projects still, The while contentedly they said: "There is no Devil; he is dead."

But when by chance one day in Spring Through Devon he went wandering And for an idle moment stood Upon the edge of Daccombe wood, Where bluebells almost hid the green, With the last primroses between, He bit his lip and turned away And could do no more work that day.

R. F.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

There has recently been a notable output of books of "personalities" and critical appreciations, contemporary, historical and (for the most part) iconoclastic. One may therefore say that Mr. HORACE G. HUTCHINSON is distinctly of the movement in compiling his _Portraits of the 'Eighties_ (UNWIN). This is certainly a volume that anyone can dip into with instruction and entertainment, even if (to be quite honest) the former is likely to predominate. The fact is that one has become so used to the satirical method in portraiture, in which the attack is all and the subject emerges only as a beriddled target, that an ordinary pen-picture, however faithful, is apt to seem heavy by contrast. Mr. HUTCHINSON certainly is not of the slingers; he will just "tell you about" the notable persons of his period, setting down nothing in malice, omitting little however banal, and rejecting no aphorism or anecdote as outworn. Perhaps his nearest approach to the popular method is a very occasional touch of gentle irony, as when he permits himself to say of G. W. E. RUSSELL (to whose _Portraits of the Seventies_ the present volume is intended as a sequel) that he "used to drive about London in a carriage picked out in colours that did not suggest that he sought seclusion." I have no space for the barest list of the sitters in Mr. HUTCHINSON'S crowded picture of a time rich in character, his treatment of which aims rather at covering a wide ground than at intimacy of detail. To mention but one, it is interesting to compare his General GORDON with the recent presentment of him by another hand. If the result is more creditable to Mr. HUTCHINSON'S kindliness than to his wit, it may serve as an apt comment on the whole book.

* * * * *

_Beauty and Bands_ (CONSTABLE) is not, as you might excusably suppose, a treatise on syncopation or the decline of Jazz, but takes its title from a verse in the Book of Proverbs. Really what the story most illustrates is the extent to which a clever and experienced writer can clothe a wildly impossible plot with some aspect of reality. Miss ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER assuredly does not lack courage; having thought out a "good situation" (which it certainly is) she was not going to be put off by any considerations of probability. I can't resist some sketch of it, even at the risk of spoiling your pleasure. Suppose a lovely but selfish wife, bored to the point of flight from a well-intentioned husband, then involved in a railway smash which disfigures her beauty, destroys her memory and incidentally reforms her character; let her by plausible circumstance be mistaken for another traveller in the wrecked train and under a new name and personality meet her husband, fall in love with him, but be compelled to reject his suit by the presumption that his vanished wife may still be living--as I hinted, the result in situations is enough to satisfy the most exacting, the only real drawback being that not all Miss FOWLER'S pleasantly persuasive efforts can make me believe a word of it. If she had dared a little more, and inflicted the husband with blindness, impaired hearing and slight mental decay, I would have stretched a point and supposed that, during a protracted courtship, he might never have recognised his own wife. Lacking these concessions I can only report an entertaining but preposterous absurdity.

* * * * *

Those of us who read _With the Persian Expedition_ know something about the Hush-Hush Army; enough, at any rate, to whet our appetites for more. Let me then recommend _The Adventures of Dunsterforce_ (ARNOLD) to your notice, and assure you that it is a most lively account of as strange an enterprise as any that the War brought forth. Briefly, the object of General DUNSTERVILLE'S mission was to prevent German and Turkish penetration in the area of the Caucasus, Baku and the Caspian Sea. In January, 1918, he set out from Baghdad with what he calls "the leading party." Continually hampered by lack of men, the mission failed to achieve its original object; but what it accomplished in most difficult circumstances was of great value to the Allies. The conditions at the time when the author sailed from Enzeli with his "Dunsterforce" to raise the siege of Baku were delightfully cosmopolitan. He describes himself as "a British General on the Caspian, the only sea unploughed before by British keels, on board a ship named after a South African Dutch President and whilom enemy, sailing from a Persian port under the Serbian flag to relieve from the Turks a body of Armenians in a revolutionary Russian town." "Let the reader," he adds, "pick his way through that delirious tangle, and envy us our task who may." After pursuing the tricky course of this astounding adventure I confess myself lost, not in its mazes, thanks to an excellent map, but in profound admiration for "Dunsterforce" and its leader.

* * * * *

In _A Merchant Fleet at War_ (CASSELL) it takes nearly a hundred pictures to illustrate the fighting effort and experiences of the Cunard Steamship Company. Quite a lot of them are from snap-shot photographs actually taken while in action with submarines, and where through an unfortunate oversight these have not been available someone with vivid brush and imagination has done wonders to fill the gap. Certainly such a subject as the passing of the _Lusitania_, her decks still packed though her great bulk is three-quarters gone, the sea crowded with boats and, presumably, drowning Englishmen, is perhaps a little poignant to be handled in this fashion; but no one can object to seeing a U-boat nose-diving at the instance of S.S. _Phrygia_, or another being messed up by a shell from the _Valeria_; while the historic fight between _Carmania_, in Prussian blue, and _Cap Trafalgar_, mostly crimson, competes for lurid splendour with the _Mauretania_ in "dazzle" costume, staged with a sky to match. Incidentally Mr. ARCHIBALD HURD has acted as showman for the collection. One might have found his exposition rather more substantial but for Sir JULIAN CORBETT'S first volume of _Naval Operations_, which has set an uncomfortably high standard in sea history. Frankly, the deeds of the men of our merchant fleets, of the Cunarders no less than others, were so magnificent that a book to be worthy of them must be in itself as modest and unpretentious as they were. This book is not.

* * * * *

_The Tall Villa_ (COLLINS), by "LUCAS MALET," has a strange theme--no less than the deliberate wooing, by a sensitive unhappy woman, of a more unhappy ghost. _Lord Oxley_ had lived in this odd villa on Primrose Hill a hundred years ago with a noted stage beauty who had finally jilted him. One of his descendants, _Frances Copley_, banished from Grosvenor Square by her husband's financial failure and conscious of the growing rift between them, detaches herself more and more from the world of sense till she is--well, till she is in just the right mood for seeing ghosts. First it is a mere shadow that stands by her piano; next a faceless figure, exquisitely dressed, sits brooding in her chair; then she hears a pistol shot; later--but this will spoil your entertainment. I cannot say I was quite convinced, but I certainly was held to the end by a tale very skilfully, almost too carefully, told, and by the cleverness of the four portraits-- _Frances_ herself, the adorable _Lady Lucia_ her cousin, _Charlie Montagu_ the passionate bounder, and, a little less definite, _Morris Copley_ the stockbroking husband.

* * * * *

Messrs. HODDER AND STOUGHTON have beaten up various American magazines and shepherded a few _Waifs and Strays_ of short stories by the late "O. HENRY" (WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER) into a final volume of their excellent edition of his works. They have also included appreciations by various American and British critics of the author's achievement, together with some sparse biographical details. The stories are of varying value, exercises on a sentimental motive cloaked by humorous or bizarre exaggeration of language, with those unexpected but ingeniously plausible endings which are of the essence of "O. HENRY'S" method. Of the criticisms, English readers will be most affected by Mr. STEPHEN LEACOCK'S "The Amazing Genius of O. HENRY," an analytical appreciation in the most handsome terms, deploring English neglect of this master of one of the most difficult of art-forms--a neglect which we have done something of late to remedy.